


Countermeasure

by Westgate (Harkpad)



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Drama, M/M, Writing on Skin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-28
Updated: 2014-08-28
Packaged: 2018-02-15 02:17:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2212020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harkpad/pseuds/Westgate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The ink on Phil’s arm starts to fade by the time Clint wakes, and it will be gone in a couple of days, just a whisper of a memory.</p><p>Clint draws on Phil's skin. Sometimes he does this for Phil, and sometimes he does it for himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Countermeasure

**Author's Note:**

  * For [arsenicarcher (Arsenic)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arsenic/gifts).



 

 

When Phil gets home, Clint takes one look at him and knows that he’s strung out from the kind of week agents always try to forget can happen at SHIELD. Phil’s eyes are hollow, his skin is pale, and his hands are shaking a little.

He walks through the front door to their apartment, drops his briefcase on the kitchen table, and disappears into their bedroom without a word to Clint.

Clint settles himself on their couch with a beer and a baseball game on low volume.

An hour later, he’s still there, sitting with one stocking foot on the floor and one stretched out down the couch, and suddenly Phil is settling between his legs and leaning back against him with his head tucked under Clint's chin. He's wearing soft blue flannel pajama pants and one of Clint's faded gold "Life is Good" t-shirts. Despite having a tiny moose on his chest, Phil looks remarkably sexy wearing Clint's clothes. Seeing Phil choose Clint's clothes over his own _always_ sends a little spark through Clint's body.

Phil rests a beer bottle against Clint’s knee and sighs.

“Do you want to talk?” Clint whispers, rubbing his chin against Phil’s hair.

“No.”

They sit quietly for a few minutes and Clint can feel the tension in the lines of Phil’s body, his stiff shoulders, his jittery leg, and how his hand still shakes a little when he takes a pull of his amber beer.

“Do you want –“ Clint starts to ask, and it’s a testament to how often this sort of day actually _does_ happen that Phil just nods, yes, before Clint even gets the question out.

After he mutes the television, Clint shifts a little to reach behind the couch to the maple sofa table and grabs a wooden cigar box. He pulls it down and sets it on Phil’s lap and smiles when Phil rubs his fingers over the smooth oak case, tracing the dark lines of the wolf that is carved into the lid. Clint reaches around and lifts the lid while Phil is still tracing, deftly pulls one of the soft, fine-tipped black markers out, and closes the lid, without interrupting the path of Phil’s finger.

Phil shifts his weight forward a bit so that he can duck his head and Clint shivers because the trust Phil’s showing is palpable. His neck is exposed to Clint now, and Clint takes a moment to massage it gently before he pulls the plastic cap off of the pen and puts the pen to Phil’s neck. He drags it across the taut skin and through the fine hairs, etching a thin-line across the base. He hears Phil blow air through pursed lips and sees his shoulders drop minutely.

“Music?” Clint asks.

“Please.”

Clint complies, and after a pause, the soft, rich notes of a wooden flute fill the room. He puts the pen back to Phil’s neck, going slowly, inking an intricate pattern of intersecting lines and overlapping circles across the back of Phil’s neck. Eventually, he shifts his weight and pulls Phil’s free hand into his own. Clint slots his palm under Phil’s to hold the hand steady, and Phil sucks in a deep, shaky breath and releases it slow, making a light breeze across Clint’s hand. Clint presses a soft kiss to Phil’s shoulder and draws a small leaf on his wrist, the veins of the leaf intricate and crisp. He adds another, and when the wrist is covered in a bracelet of leaves, Clint leans back and lifts the lid of the box Phil is still holding and puts the pen back.

  
“Clint,” Phil says, his voice low like the growl of a wolf, and Clint lifts the box from Phil’s hands, sets it on the coffee table, and turns Phil just enough to press a soft kiss to his lips. He tastes the beer, but he also tastes guilt, and he pulls back and runs a finger down the edge of Phil’s chin.

“None of it was your fault,” he says, locking his eyes with Phil’s shadowed ones.

Phil nods. “I know. But Loughlin was - I can’t believe we lost her.”

Clint keeps stroking Phil’s cheek. “I know. I’ll miss playing ping-pong with her,” he says, and smiles at a memory.

“Table tennis,” Phil says, his voice a choked sound, and he swallows hard.

“She’d appreciate you taking up the cause, but it’s a lost one. It’s ping-pong.”

Phil laughs and ducks his head, his shoulders shaking.

Clint shifts him back to leaning and picks up another pen from the box. This one is gold, and it turns Phil’s skin a light bronze when Clint presses the tip to his forearm. He drags the pen gently, and Phil relaxes some more, leans his head back on Clint’s shoulder, and watches him work. Clint draws stars, meteors, miniature planets with rings around them all over Phil’s forearm and Phil’s body unwinds a bit more with each celestial shape.

They’re quiet for a long time, letting the music drown their thoughts and watching the ink conjure lines of distraction. Phil’s breathing settles, his muscles unclench, and he melts against Clint’s body. Clint lets the pen soak up the guilt from Phil’s skin, and he loses himself in the drawing, as if covering Phil’s skin will transform the pain of losing a colleague into something beautiful.

* * *

 

 

When Clint stumbles through the door of their apartment on a Saturday afternoon, Phil looks up from mopping the kitchen floor and sighs.

“Did you go to medical?” He asks.

Clint glances down at the blood on his shirt, a stripe of it at the top and one at the bottom, and shakes his head. “It’s not mine. I’m fine.” His voice is gravelly, like he’s been yelling too long, and he’s standing at the edge of the kitchen. He stays too still, like he’s deliberately trying to hold himself together.

“How long have you been awake?”

“Thirty-five. Not too bad.”

“Clint,” Phil replies darkly. It is bad. They’re supposed to spell him at twenty, and he looks like shit. There are streaks of dirt and sweat on his face, dark circles under his eyes, his hair is disheveled and still dark with sweat. It seems like he’s about to fall over. “Want me to help you shower?” Phil asks, and he manages to cross his fingers behind his back without Clint seeing.

“No,” Clint says, and his voice drops to a breath.

Phil’s heart stutters and he sets the mop against the counter with a clatter and crosses to Clint. He reaches up and runs his hand through Clint’s dusty hair. “What happened?” he asks but Clint just presses his chin to his chest and draws a shuddering breath. “Do you want – “ Phil says softly, and Clint nods. “Change your clothes?” Phil says, and he gets a prickly feeling across his skin when Clint looks longingly at the couch, like maybe even changing into pajamas is too much. But Clint finally nods and follows Phil into their room.

Phil pulls Clint’s most worn pair of grey sweatpants out of a drawer, along with a once forest green t-shirt, and turns around. Clint is sitting on the edge of their bed staring blankly out the window. Phil kneels in front of him and undoes the laces of his boots. He pulls them off and tugs Clint’s socks off, too, ignoring the sweat and stench. Thirty-five hours is way too long. He stands up and tosses the socks in the hamper and reaches for the hem of Clint’s shirt, careful not to touch the blood.

  
“You should’ve gone to medical, Clint,” he admonishes gently, and Clint sighs. If nothing else, they would’ve made him get a clean shirt.

“I know,” Clint replies, and his exhaustion is audible.

Phil helps him change clothes, noting Clint’s pliancy and silence. When they’re done, tugs him to his feet and leads him back to the living room. Clint settles himself on the couch, and Phil sits down between his legs and leans back into his chest. Clint shifts and pulls the old box from behind the couch, setting it on Phil’s lap. Phil smiles as Clint opens the lid, pulling out his favorite fine-tipped black pen. Phil offers his forearm and Clint takes a breath, setting the pen to Phil’s skin.

Clint’s hand is shaking and the lines on Phil’s arm are flimsy and loose, swirls of chaos across Phil’s skin. As Clint finishes a particularly wobbly spiral, Phil presses his other hand gently to the back of Clint’s fingers. “What happened?” he asks, rubbing his forefinger across Clint’s knuckles.

Clint presses his forehead into Phil’s shoulder blade, and when he talks, it’s muffled against Phil’s shirt.

“Sanderson ID’d the wrong guy,” he says, and buries his head harder against Phil’s body. “Took out a civilian on his orders. Had to take out an extra guy on the mark’s team to get to him late.”

Phil closes his eyes and blows out a sharp breath. Sanderson’s mistake wasn’t on Clint, but Clint took the shots and paid the toll for it.

“It’s not on you,” Phil says.

“Except for how it is.”

And Clint’s right. In the end he still took the shots, was the weapon. The weapon bears some of the blame.

Phil offers his other arm to help Clint work the blame he carries out of his system, and Clint’s calloused fingers hold it steady as he presses the pen against Phil’s skin again.

The lines get steadier, shadowy images of Clint’s bow and clean lines of buildings low near Phil’s wrist, and a sturdy tree further up his arm, looming over the rest of the art, shading it at first, and as Clint’s hand gets steady, it grows across the buildings, weaves around the bow and wraps around the string until all Phil can see is a thin line amidst the leaves and branches.

Clint’s body unclenches, his breathing evens out, and eventually he sets down the pen, puts the box back, and pulls Phil off of the couch and into the shower. He lets Phil wash the dirt, grime, and dried blood of the last forty or so hours from his body before they collapse into bed, and Clint sleeps for sixteen hours.

The ink on Phil’s arm starts to fade by the time Clint wakes, and it will be gone in a couple of days, just a whisper of a memory.

_The ink is an antidote, a countermeasure, a neutralizer, and it sits in an oaken cigar box with a feral-looking wolf carved into its top. The box stays on the maple table behind their couch and waits for them to need its absolution. The ink provides this without judgment and without pain, both of which their lives provide on a far too regular basis._

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> A big thank-you to my awesome beta, lexxorz, who did a lightning fast turnaround for me on this.


End file.
